A Perfectly Natural Reaction
by donnaladynoble
Summary: "A sex dream about your best friend is every bit as normal as a dream about him dying. You've been through a lot of stress concerning Sherlock, and it's not surprising that you might feel a special connection with him that, in your dreams, manifests itself in the form of a sexual relationship." Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock.
1. A Dream Deferred

There is a certain sanctity in a dream that goes unspoken.

John Watson knew this from experience. When he was away at war and the after-images of bloody faces and bullet-riddled torsos would come back to haunt him in his sleep, he would wake up knowing that he had been heard tossing and turning and maybe even crying. No one ever said anything to him about it (though he knew from the concerned, irritated, and sometimes mocking glances that his nightmares were not a secret), and the doctor never bothered to explain himself.

Never bothered, or rather, made a conscious decision not to.

Talking about it, he decided, would only make it real. There was no actual proof of the horrible scenes that caused his heart to pound and his voice to cry out in the dark, and as long as he didn't tell anybody, there never would be. So he would go through his day tending to wounds and pretending that he hadn't seen ones much, much worse just a few hours before, and even he almost believed himself after a while.

His fears had been confirmed when he came back to London and (at his sister's insistence) started seeing a therapist. Against his will, he had told her of his dreams, and then they had come back, giving him many sleepless nights and a limp in his leg—the right one, just like the one he'd seen torn from a man's body in an explosion. It wasn't until he met Sherlock and he was finally able to do something worthwhile again, helping to catch bad guys as he ran about the city with his crazy, brilliant madman of a flatmate, that the nightmares finally stopped.

It was that same crazy, brilliant madman that caused the nightmares to come back, this time worse than ever. John could hardly close his eyes anymore without seeing blood and death and things that made him want to scream and cry and vomit all at once. It wasn't really that the blood was any bloodier or the death any less permanent that made him shriek loudly enough to wake Mrs. Hudson; it was that it was Sherlock. On the battlefield or on the cold, hard streets of London, the lifeless faces always belonged to Sherlock. And they continued to belong to Sherlock weeks after he would wake to find Sherlock, alive and un-bloodied and infuriatingly calm, sitting in the corner of his room and playing the violin like he hadn't just come back from the dead.

A month since Sherlock's return, and John's nightmares had finally ceased, allowing him the peaceful sleep he hadn't had since his best friend had jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. John was grateful. Even when he'd gone back to his therapist after Sherlock's alleged death, he hadn't told her about the nightmares, thoroughly believing that doing so would only make his friend deader. He could let himself hold onto some tiny hope that Sherlock would somehow return, if only he didn't let himself or anyone else know that the detective died not just once, but every single night.

Which was why John found it very strange to be back in therapy, trying to decide whether or not to divulge the details of an entirely different kind of dream he'd been having as of late. Silently questioning his sanity, he fiddled with his sleeve while trying to weigh the pros and cons of escaping through the window.

"John."

His mind was pulled away from his escape plan to find his therapist staring at him with a mix of concern and exasperation. "Oh. Erm, yes?" was all he could think to say.

"It's been more than ten minutes. Do you want to tell me why you're here?"

John opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head. "No, not really."

Ella let out a heavy sigh. "Look, I do have other patients to see, and I did just barely manage to squeeze you in when you called at the last minute. I don't mind sitting here in silence for your allotted time if that's what you think will help you, but I do only have another fifteen minutes before my next patient comes in, so if there's something you want to say…"

"I had a dream about Sherlock." The words fell out of the army doctor's mouth before he could stop them.

His therapist sighed again, this time sounding somewhat relieved. "Okay. That's progress. So, you had a dream about Sherlock. And I'm guessing this dream upset you?"

John hesitated, then nodded.

"John, you know it's normal to have nightmares about your best friend, especially after the shock he gave you just last month. You believed he was dead for three years, and it's likely part of your subconscious still believes it. Dreaming about his death…"

"It wasn't that kind of dream. I mean, it was…for a long time." He winced at his own admission. "But not this one. This one was…different."

"Oh?" said Ella. "How so?"

"You know…" John could feel his face heat up, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Er…you know…"

"I really won't unless you tell me."

John took a deep breath. Better to just get it over with.

"Itwasasexdream."

If possible, his face grew even warmer.

Several seconds passed before he realised that his eyes were closed tightly. He opened them slowly, one at a time. Ella was staring back at him, looking as relaxed as ever. If she was surprised, John thought, she did a really good job of hiding it.

"I see," said his therapist finally. "And this bothers you?"

"Well of course it bloody well bothers me!" he said, a bit louder than he had intended. "It's Sherlock-bloody-Holmes! How am I supposed to go about my life, living with and solving mysteries with a man I dream-fucked?"

"So you were in the dominant position in this dream." Ella scribbled something in her notes. "Interesting."

"What? No it is not interesting! I mean, that's not the point!" John said, aware that he probably sounded slightly manic.

"Then what is the point?"

"The point?" John jumped up from his chair. "Oh, I'll tell you what the point is. The point is…" He stopped mid-sentence unsure how to continue. What was he supposed to say? That he had not been nearly as uncomfortable as he thought he should have been upon waking up hard and sweaty over a dream having entirely too much to do with his best friend? That after all of the hundreds of grizzly and horrible nightmares he'd had about said best friend's death, never speaking a word of it to his therapist for fear that they would come true, one racy dream had him spilling his guts?

"John, it's nothing to be ashamed of. A sex dream about your best friend is every bit as normal as a dream about him dying. You've been through a lot of stress concerning Sherlock, and it's not surprising that you might feel a special connection with him that, in your dreams, manifests itself in the form of a sexual relationship. It's a perfectly natural reaction."

"Yeah?" he said. "Yeah. Maybe you're right. Maybe it doesn't mean anything. But even if it doesn't, how am I going to react next time I see Sherlock? It's not like I can avoid him for long. What if I see him and I feel the same 'special bond' or whatever that I felt in my dream, huh? What then?"

"Well, I doubt that. Most dreams like this turn out to be nothing more than that: dreams. Just because they may reflect feelings you've repressed doesn't mean you're going to act on them in real life. Sure, you may feel a little awkward, but I'm sure Sherlock won't notice."

"Oh god." John made a mental note to kick himself later. "I completely forgot about Sherlock noticing. I was so busy thinking about trying not to jump his bones that I forgot that the man is a sodding detective! And a genius one at that! I've seen Sherlock deduce people's porn habits by their shirt sleeves and their evil plans by the pupils of their eyes. Even if I manage to keep it together perfectly, he'll know. Who am I kidding, he probably already knows!"

And with that, the army doctor rushed through the door of the therapist's office without so much as a goodbye, quite nearly running over the middle-aged woman waiting outside the office door and for once not caring in the slightest.

Soon, he found himself standing in the doorway of 221B, panting slightly from his run up the stairs, and staring at the lithe form of his flatmate as he bent over a beaker of blue chemicals, at a complete loss as to what to do next. Sherlock, for his part, was ignoring John entirely.

They stayed in their respective positions, unspeaking, for what felt to John like an eternity. Finally, without bothering to look up from his experiment, Sherlock spoke up.

"Close the door, John. My experiment needs to be kept at a precise temperature and you're letting the heat out."

"Sorry," John mumbled, a little dazed. He shut the door and they resumed their uncomfortable silence, John staring at his flatmate in mild terror and Sherlock seemingly unaware of the whole thing.

"Do you know?" This time it was John who broke the silence. He gulped as Sherlock finally looked up.

The detective stared at him, expression almost blank, and John felt as though he was being looked through rather than looked at. Then he said the words John had been dreading, and the doctor found himself feeling rather ill.

"Of course, John."

Just like Ella, Sherlock seemed impossibly calm about the whole thing. John almost wished he would make some snippy remark about being married to his work or about sentiment being stupid, just so he would know how to react. Why did everyone have to stare at him like that? Like it was all fine and they understood? What was he supposed to say to that?

He finally settled for stammering out a few terse replies while sneaking away towards his room so he could lock himself in and never come out. "Oh," he said. "Well. Then. That's…well that's that, isn't it? Okay. I'll just er…"

"John, I know you're trying to get back to your room unnoticed, but let me just remind you that it is exceedingly rare for me not to notice even the most well-executed of escape plans. Yours, by the way, isn't even very good."

"Right," John said, visibly deflating somewhat. "Of course."

Sherlock raise a single eyebrow, never breaking eye contact with his flustered friend. "Don't take it personally. Almost everyone—"

"No! No, Sherlock, do _not _tell me how I'm just as stupid as everyone else who doesn't have your giant brain. Not today. And for god's sake stop looking at me like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like some sort of stupid bug that's flying around annoying you. I'll be perfectly happy to leave you in peace and go up to my room. You can go back to whatever experiment you're doing and we can act like this never happened, but if you're going to call me out on trying to leave, at least stop being such a prat for five minutes and let me talk for once! Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock started to open his mouth as though to protest but stopped himself. He nodded solemnly.

"Good," said John. He began to pace back and forth across the floor. "Alright. So, just so we're on the same page, we are talking about the…dream I had last night. Correct?"

Sherlock nodded again.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't see any reason this has to get in the way of our friendship. I talked to my therapist, and she said it's perfectly normal to have…_those _kinds of dreams after, well, you know, something like what I've been through with you."

He looked up to see Sherlock with that infernal eyebrow raised again. "Oh for crying out loud, you know exactly what I mean! Three years, Sherlock. For three years, I had to go every day of my life believing that I watched my best friend die! Don't pretend you don't know _exactly_ how much I was hurting. And then, all of a sudden, here you are! Back from the dead! And I'm just supposed to accept you back into my life like nothing ever happened? Like I didn't dream of you dying, over and over again, every night since you jumped off of that bloody roof?" He sighed. "Funny, I guess dreaming about you has been the cause of a lot of my problems as of late."

Sherlock was still at his seat at the dining table, staring at John thoughtfully. As the older man finished his speech, he slowly got up from his chair and walked carefully, almost cautiously, toward John, as if his friend was a frightened animal who might get scared by any sudden movement and run away. But John didn't run away; he remained firmly in his spot as the consulting detective drew nearer, until he found himself suddenly enveloped in a pair of thin but strong arms.

To say John was surprised at his friend's gesture would have been an understatement. In all the years the two men had been friends, Sherlock had only ever hugged John once, and that was on the day he 'returned from the dead,' when John's conflicting emotions of joy, anger, and disbelief left him in a fit of hysteria.

Still, John welcomed the comforting warmth of the other body pressed close to his own, and he wrapped his arms around the detective's thin frame, burying his face in his bony shoulder. It shouldn't have been very comfortable considering how painfully thin Sherlock was, but after several seconds, John realised that he didn't want to let go.

And so he didn't let go, at least not until several minutes later when Sherlock finally spoke.

"John?" he said.

"Hm?"

"Would you kindly relinquish my body for one moment? I think my experiment is burning a hole through the dining table."

"Okay." John started to loosen his hold on the detective when the words sunk in. "Wait. What?"

But by then Sherlock was already back at the table, using something that looked disturbingly like one of John's jumpers to mop up the blue goop that had overflowed from its beaker and had, sure enough, very nearly burnt a hole through the wood.

"Sherlock!" John said, seeing the large, blackened dent left in the top of the table. "What are we going to tell Mrs. Hudson?"

"I wasn't planning on telling her anything," Sherlock said, swiping a fruit bowl off the counter and placing it over the offending burn mark. "See? Good as new."

"No, Sherlock, it's really not…" John started, but then caught sight of the detective's grin. He couldn't help but grin back himself. "Tosser," he said affectionately.

"Imbecile," Sherlock threw back, still grinning.

"Oi!" John exclaimed, though he wasn't offended.

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "Term of endearment, I assure you."

"Careful, Sherlock. Keep that up and people might start to suspect you have a heart after all."

"I do have a heart," Sherlock said. "It's simply two sizes too small." They both had a laugh at that one. "But John?"

"Yeah?"

"In all seriousness, you do know that you are the most important thing in my life, right?"

Now it was John's turn to raise his eyebrows. "What happened to being married to your work?"

"Well," said Sherlock, and John was suddenly aware of their proximity. How had he not noticed that Sherlock was practically hovering above him? "After my work caused so much pain to the person I cared most about, we decided it was best to just be friends."

"Is that so?" John asked, feeling more than a little lightheaded. In his mind's eye, he flashed back to the dream he'd had the night before. He and Sherlock sharing a heated kiss. He and Sherlock undressing each other as they made their way toward Sherlock's bedroom. He and Sherlock—

"I have a question."

John's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's voice. "Er…okay."

"You mentioned the other dreams you'd had of me, the one's where I die. But I know you hadn't been to see your therapist since a few weeks after I faked my death. You told me yourself that you'd gone a couple of times and it hadn't helped. A couple of times is hardly enough time to get into dream logic, what with all the other problems you had to work out. I'm guessing you didn't want to talk about them. Understandable; ignoring things that are upsetting is a common defense mechanism. But!" Sherlock, if possible, stepped even more into John's personal space. "You felt the need to talk about the dream you had last night with both your therapist and me."

"Th-that's right," said John, trying to keep his voice steady and failing miserably.

"So here's my question for you, John Watson." Sherlock narrowed his eyes; John gulped. "Why?"

"Why?" John repeated dumbly.

"Yes, you heard me. Why? Why did you feel the need to discuss it?" His ice-cold eyes shifted back and forth as if searching John's own for an answer. "Is it possible that you didn't want to ignore this one? Could it be that you, despite your own self-professed heterosexuality, wanted this dream to—"

John never found out what Sherlock was going to accuse him of. Then again, he was too busy attacking the taller man's lips (and, in all probability, proving Sherlock's point) to care.

Sherlock did not seem at all surprised at having his speech interrupted in such a manner. He probably even deduced that this would happen, John thought vaguely as Sherlock bit down gently on his lower lip, causing the doctor to moan softly into his mouth. Almost unconsciously, he began to run his right hand up Sherlock's arm until it came to rest in the detective's messy curls, his left hand sliding down to grab at his full backside.

While John's hands explored, Sherlock was busy tugging at the hem of John's beige jumper while he slowly but surely backed John into his bedroom door. They stayed against the door for a while, lips only breaking apart when it was necessary in order to remove a layer of clothing, until finally they stood there in just their pants, one thin layer of clothing separating each of them from baring it all.

"Bed?" Sherlock said, trailing his eyes down John's body and then quickly back up again.

"Yep," was all John had to say on the matter before pushing the door open and stumbling inside, pulling Sherlock in with him.

Before long they found themselves on the bed, John hovering above Sherlock as Sherlock tugged at John's last layer of clothing.

"Sherlock, wait."

The other man stared up at him, looking puzzled but removing his hands from John's hips all the same.

"I hate to ruin the mood and all," said John, "but I have a question for you too."

"If you're going to ask me whether or not I'm sure about this, I can assure you that I would not be attempting to remove all of your clothing if I wasn't."

"No, no. It's not that," John said, sitting up so he was on his knees, legs still resting on either side of Sherlock's. "It's just…I have to know. I know you're brilliant and all, but how did you deduce about my dream?"

He saw Sherlock smirk in the dimly-lit room. "Do the words "Sherlock, I need to be inside of you right now' ring any bells?"

John wrinkled his brow. "No…?"

"Really? Because that's what I heard you screaming last night."

All of a sudden, John was very glad for the poor lighting in the room. He knew his face must have been a very interesting shade of red.

"Did you? Oh. Erm. Well…that's…"

"Embarrassing?"

"Yeah," John nodded in the dark.

"John, I assure you, you have nothing to worry about. As you would probably say, it's all fine."

"Really?"

"Really." John could barely see anymore as the last rays of sun disappeared from behind the curtains (when did it get to be so late?), but he was fairly certain he saw Sherlock smile reassuringly.

"Although," Sherlock continued. "If you are really that concerned, you may want to refrain from talking this time, just so I don't hear the repeat performance from my room. You would think that someone who knows he talks in his sleep would learn to monitor what he says when he suspects he might be dreaming."

"Huh? But Sherlock, we _are_ in your room. And dreaming? What are you…?"

John Watson sat up in bed and looked around. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, and John realised he was back in his own room with damp sheets wrapped tightly around his sweaty (but clothed) body. The clock on the nightstand read 4:12 AM.

"Shit," he said.

* * *

Hello! If you've stuck around this long, congratulations! And thank you for reading. As you might (or might not) have noticed, I'm brand new to writing Sherlock fanfiction. Though I did used to write for different shows on a different account, way, way back in the day (meaning like 2-3 years ago). I don't like to beg for reviews, but if you have any thoughts on how my first story went/what I might improve upon for next time, I'd love to hear your feedback. :)

Later,

Abs


	2. A Sound Deduction

John was sexually frustrated.

This was the conclusion John came to on Christmas Eve afternoon as he poured himself a cup of tea and tried not to think about his latest dream, the sixth in a week starring his flatmate. This one had been particularly blush-inducing, causing him to avert his eyes every time they landed on the lanky detective currently having a temper tantrum over a recent lack of cases.

"One little murder is all I'm asking for," Sherlock fumed as he paced from the dining table to the couch and back to the table again. "A stabbing. A kidnapping. I'd even take a mildly interesting robbery at this point! Why does no one in all of London want to commit a decent crime?"

"I don't know. Maybe everyone just decided to be nice to each other for Christmas. Holiday spirit and all that." John was careful to focus his gaze on the teacup in his hands and not on the detective's full, soft-looking lips that his subconscious apparently believed had better uses than complaining.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock spat, too busy in his rant to notice the slight blush that appeared on John's cheeks as he recalled a certain thing that dream-Sherlock had done with his tongue the night before. "On Christmas Eve emotions run high, higher than they normally do. Last minute shopping, minimum wage workers being forced to stay at their jobs rather than spend time with their families, unruly teenagers off from school and running amock. It's practically a recipe for crime."

"Well apparently it isn't this year," John said shortly, still making an effort to stare at his tea. The steam had disappeared from the top as it began to grow cold. "So why don't you find something else to do then? Plenty of ways to relieve boredom besides solving murders or pacing back in forth complaining. Read a book, watch some telly, play your viol—umph."

He was cut off suddenly by a soft pair of lips pressed against his own. John took a moment to process the cool, slender hands cupping his face before reciprocating the kiss. The hands on his face started to trail downward.

The teacup crashed to the floor.

"Wait, Sherlock," said John, pulling away. He briefly registered the disappointed look on Sherlock's face, filed it away for later. "What…what was that?"

"Well, you didn't seem to be in favor of my pacing," Sherlock stated calmly.

"Right…?"

"You suggested I find something else to do," he continued.

"Yes. And?"

"I did."

"Sherlock," John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean _me._"

"Does that mean you weren't enjoying it?" Sherlock raised a single eyebrow and lowered his voice in a way that went straight to John's groin.

"No! I mean, yes! Yes, that means I was not enjoying it. I mean…" John paused as a thought dawned on him. "Wait. Is this a dream?"

"That's a sound deduction," Sherlock (dream-Sherlock?) said, placing a hand on John's hip and rubbing his thumb in small circles almost absentmindedly. "So what? You know you want this. Here's your chance to do with me whatever you like. No strings, no consequences."

"Okay, first of all no, no I do not want this. Not that it matters to anyone including, apparently, my subconscious, but I'm not gay. And second…" John trailed off as he considered dream-Sherlock's second point. He looked up to find the detective's eyes dilated and practically predatory. "Oh sod it," he said before grasping the back of the man's neck and pulling him in for another kiss.

Dream-Sherlock didn't miss a beat. He smiled into the kiss as his hands resumed their path down John's torso, past his jumper-clad shoulders, chest and stomach, down and around to grab his arse, and then back around to the front of his jeans. He wasted no time with that area, going immediately for the button and zipper and undoing them almost as fast as he was undoing his friend. John let out a moan of approval as he felt one of the slender hands slip under the waistband of his pants.

_How can this be a dream_, John wondered, _when it seems so real?_ He honestly wasn't sure anymore whether or not he wanted it to be a dream. Maybe he'd wake up in the morning and he really would be naked in Sherlock's bed, and they'd spend Christmas Day making love, and it would be the best present John ever received. The idea didn't sound nearly as strange as he thought it should.

And if he was disappointed when he woke to find himself—once again—alone, hard, and tangled in his own sheets, it was only because he realised that Christmas was seven months away.

...

The only cure for his sexual frustration, John decided, was to find a way to satisfy his desires. Not necessarily with Sherlock. It probably wasn't even about Sherlock himself, he thought, so much as Sherlock's proximity and John's need for some sort of physical interaction with another human.

What John needed was a good old-fashioned shag with a nice girl.

Which was why, the morning after his seventh Sherlock-centric sex dream, John found himself digging through pockets, wastebaskets, and drawers trying to find one (any) of the phone numbers given to him by women at the pub that Greg Lestrade had dragged him to almost every weekend since Sherlock had faked his death. There hadn't been nearly as many girls willing to hand him their phone number as there used to be (though Greg seemed to be pocketing quite a few from men and women alike), and John hadn't been all that thrilled to receive them at the time. _What kind of woman hits on a man who is clearly depressed anyway?_ he'd wondered. Besides, he was too old to be dating. Might as well settle down into his life as a confirmed bachelor, going only to work and the pub and always coming home alone to an empty apartment. Maybe he'd get a dog to keep him company. A nice, friendly, medium-sized dog, if Mrs. Hudson would allow it. And then he could just stay home and avoid people as much as possible for the rest of his life. It probably wouldn't be so bad.

Of course, that was before he'd started dreaming about shagging his best friend every night.

Now he was wishing he had thought to keep those phone numbers in a drawer or a box instead of throwing them away or leaving them wadded up in his pocket to be ruined in the wash. Surely he hadn't done away with all of them, had he? Yet search as he might, he couldn't find a single napkin or receipt with writing on it in the whole room.

It probably wasn't worth the effort, he thought. Even if he did find one of the numbers, there was no telling how long ago it would have been from. There was probably a used napkin from years back lying crumpled at the bottom of his closet or in the pocket of a pair of trousers he never wore anymore, and the girl who wrote the number on it had probably married or moved away or simply forgotten about dumb, boring John Watson. Maybe he would just call up Sarah and beg her to take him back, or give up on sex altogether and become a hermit. He could finally get that dog…

John sighed as he finally decided it was a lost cause. He sank down onto his bed, staring at the wall for a moment before kicking off his shoes and deciding to go back to sleep. It was his day off from work anyway, and it was still early enough that he could get another hour or two of sleep and still have plenty of time to run errands.

He was just settling down under the covers when he heard a soft crinkling noise coming from the edge of the bed where his hand had brushed the wall. Eyebrows furrowed, he peered first under then over the covers, eventually finding the source of the sound: a pub receipt wedged in-between the bed and the wall. It was fairly recent; the date at the top said it was from the weekend before last. John flipped it over tentatively, and, sure enough, there was a name and number written on the back in large but careful handwriting. He did not remember the girl who wrote it.

Still, he had nothing to lose. He picked up his mobile and punched the numbers quickly, before he could change his mind. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four. John was just about to hang up, deciding that she probably wasn't going to answer anyway, when the fifth ring stopped short.

"Hello?" said a cheerful female voice on the other end.

"Erm, Mary? Yes, this is John Watson. I think we met at the pub a few weeks ago? Listen, I was wondering…"

* * *

Hi there! As requested, I have decided to continue this story. I do have a vague plan for the plot, though I don't yet know how many chapters it will be. Definitely at least one more, maybe two or three. Maybe more. I really don't know. It will be an adventure! Regardless, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And if you didn't (or even if you did), I'm open to constructive criticism.

Thanks for reading, and see you soon! :)

Abs


	3. A Slip of the Tongue

"So tell me about yourself."

John hummed into his wine, half caught off-guard and half amused as he thought how he might answer Mary's question. _Well, I used to be an army doctor, but now I spend most of my days chasing murderers though the streets of London with my possibly mad flatmate whom, up until about I month ago, I believed to be dead. Oh, and I may or may not be in the middle of a sexual crisis. How about you? _He smirked at the idea before setting his wineglass back on the table and settling on a simple "I'm a doctor."

"Yeah?" Mary raised her eyebrows in interest. "That's great, because I have a thing on my back, and I've been meaning to get a doctor to take a look at it for the longest time."

"Er." John cleared his throat, avoiding eye-contact by looking down at his plate. "Well. Ahem. That's…"

"John." When John looked up, he was met with a playful smirk. "You do know I was kidding, right?"

"Oh," he said. "Right." He flicked his gaze up to her stormy blue eyes and found them full of mirth. John started giggling despite himself, and Mary joined in, her laughter soft but clear. Before he knew it, they were both nearly doubled over in their seats, and the other restaurant patrons were glancing toward and away from them disdainfully.

John's laughter died down as he noticed one elderly man frowning at his as though John was some sort of pest. "Well," John started. "This place is certainly…"

"Stuffy?" Mary supplied, seemingly unfazed by the awkward stares.

"It's a bit more posh than I'm used to, yeah. Live and learn I suppose. Next time we'll go somewhere more relaxed."

"Dr. Watson, are you already asking me out on a second date before the first one's even over?"

"Yeah," John grinned. "Guess I am."

...

_She really is lovely, _John thought as he watched Mary deftly remove the hairpins from her neat bun, letting her sunny-blonde hair fall to her shoulders. For a moment he imagined what she would look like if her wavy yellow locks were instead curly and dark. The image wasn't unpleasant, but he quickly shook it out of his head.

"You look nice with your hair down," he said, more to focus his own attention than to capture hers. "You're also pretty with your hair up," he continued quickly. He'd made the mistake of complimenting a few girlfriends in a similar fashion with bad results (_"Oh, so I'm ugly when I'm not in this dress?" _he remembered one saying), though Mary didn't seem offended. "But when you let it down, just…wow."

Mary didn't say anything but smiled back coyly as she removed her heels. Her smile was small and slightly crooked, John noticed. It suited her wonderfully. "Now then," she said, barefoot and jewelry-less at last. "You may proceed."

John grinned and made his way toward her, cupping her cheek and capturing her lips. She was fairly short without heels, and she had to tilt her head up to meet his mouth. That was good, John supposed. He hadn't had a girlfriend in years, but even when he had still been dating regularly, he'd had trouble finding girls that were much shorter than he was. Mary was the perfect height: short enough to let him lean down to her, but tall enough that he didn't have to crouch nor did she have to stand on her toes.

It was almost too perfect, he thought.

Then Mary was unbuttoning his shirt, her hands moving quickly and skillfully just as they had with her hairpins, and all thoughts of heights and hair colors were pushed from his mind. He continued to cup her face with one hand while he snaked the other around her back, pulling at the zipper of her dress. She allowed him to push the dress down until it fell to her ankles, and once again he felt the crooked smile pressed against his lips.

_I could get used to this,_ he thought. Everything was going swimmingly.

...

Everything was not going swimmingly.

"John," Mary tried again, but John continued to pretend he was ignoring her in favor of staring at the ceiling. "John, please talk to me. I'm not angry, just…say something."

Finally, John turned his head, finding her blue eyes full of concern. He didn't understand it at all. "How can you not be angry?" he said. "Any woman in her right mind would be."

"Well I'm not, but keep implying that I'm crazy and I might not be so anger-free for long."

"I'm sorry," John said.

"It's okay, just give me a little credit. I know my gender has a bad rap when it comes to getting emotional over incidents like this, but really—"

"No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I'm sorry for saying that you're crazy for not being furious with me, though honestly I don't understand why you're not, but…" he sighed. "That's not what I was apologizing for."

"Oh," she said. "That."

"Yeah. That."

"Really though John, it's fine. It's not like I don't know that there have been others in your life before me, just like there have been plenty in my life before you. This was only our first date, and it was lovely, but I'm not going to pretend that it was anything more than that. Maybe it could be someday…if it's in the cards" She slid her hand over until it rested on his. "But for now I'm just glad to have met a good man and spent a nice evening with him. A slip of the tongue isn't going to ruin that for me."

"It was a lot louder than most slips of the tongue," he grumbled.

"Even so," she said, "it was an honest mistake and nothing to be ashamed of." The lop-sided smile was back, and John couldn't help but smile too.

"You're fantastic, you know that?" he said.

Mary chuckled. "I do, actually." They fell into comfortable silence for a moment before she spoke again. "So," she said, and John felt the smile faded from his face. "Who is she?"

"Hm?" he said, caught slightly off guard by the pronoun.

"Shirley! Who is she? Obviously someone important for you to be thinking about her when…well…you know."

"Oh, right. Shirley. Ahem. Er…" John fumbled around his brain for a story. _Or you could just tell her the truth,_ said a voice in his head, but he dutifully ignored it. He'd barely saved himself when he'd started to shout his flatmate's name during orgasm, the "ey" tacked onto the first syllable hurriedly in an attempt to do something, anything to prevent the truth from coming out. No way he was letting it out now.

"She's…erm…a friend."

"Mm…" Mary hummed. "Sounded like more than just a friend if you ask me."

No response.

"What happened between you two?"

John was silent for a moment longer before sighing and trying to answer her question as truthfully as he could without letting her know the whole truth. He had always been a terrible liar. "We…" he started, but then stopped. "She left me," he said.

"How long ago?"

"Three years." This time John didn't hesitate with his answer.

"And you still miss her?" The question was not accusatory, just curious.

"I did," John said. "And then…about a month ago…she came back."

"Ah," said Mary. "I see. But you aren't, you know, back together?"

John shifted his gaze back to the ceiling before answering. "We aren't what we were."

"And what was that?"

This time, when John didn't answer, Mary decided not to push. She carefully removed her hand from its resting place on top of his and closed her eyes.

"Goodnight, John," she whispered.

John didn't reply.

...

That night, John dreamed that he was at a wedding…no, _in _a wedding he realised, looking down at his tuxedo. He looked around to find Sherlock, also in a tux, standing beside him. _Oh god, I'm marrying Sherlock, _he thought, but then realised that there was a third person, a woman in a white dress and a veil that obscured her face, making her way down the aisle.

John panicked briefly, trying to remember exactly who it was that he was supposed to be marrying and when he'd decided to do it.

"Sherlock," he whispered. The man beside him glanced sideways and raised an eyebrow in question. "Who's that?"

"Your soon-to-be wife, of course," Sherlock responded. "The blushing bride, to use a perfectly horrid expression."

"Right, but who _is _she?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but then closed it again as the woman got to the end of the aisle and took her place next to John. Without waiting for any sort of instruction, John reached out and lifted her veil. A beautiful blonde woman smiled crookedly back at him.

"Oh," he said. "Hello."

"Hello yourself," said Mary.

"Dearly beloved…" an elderly man standing behind them began. "We are gathered together here…"

"Erm…" John whispered. The priest didn't seem to notice, but it got Mary's attention. "This might sound terrible, but how did I get here?"

"I know what you mean," Mary whispered back. "It seems like only yesterday that we went on our first date."

"…_this man and this woman in holy matrimony…"_

"No," John said. "No, I don't think you understand. I mean I literally don't know how I got here."

"Are you feeling alright? You didn't stay out all night drinking, did you?"

"…_and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently…"_

"No! I mean, maybe. I honestly don't remember."

"Well, what do you remember?"

"…_If any man can show just cause…"_

"Our first date."

"…_why they may not lawfully be joined together…"_

"And after that?"

"…_let him now speak…"_

"Nothing."

"John!"

"…_or else hereafter forever hold his peace."_

"I object."

John, Mary, and even the priest turned to look at the source of the objection. Sherlock stared calmly back, and John realised that he'd probably heard their entire conversation.

"And for what reason…" the priest began.

"Because he loves me," Sherlock interrupted, and John suddenly noticed that he wasn't just staring at them, he was staring at _John. _John stared back in awe.

"I should have known!" Mary shrieked, eyes full of anger. "I should have known it'd be about him. It's _always _about him! There never was a Shirley, was there?"

"Sherlock!" John said desperately, unsure whether to yell at the man or ask him for help.

"Oh no, don't you dare call for him!" said Mary. "I'm not finished talking to you!"

"I think you are," said Sherlock, stepping gracefully between the bride and groom and looking down at John with a sly grin.

"You can't just let him do this to me! To us! John, it's our wedding day! Are you even listening to me, John? John? John? John, wake up."

"Hm? Who? What? Yes I'm listening," John said as he slowly came into consciousness. He was back in Mary's bedroom, and the first rays of sunlight were just starting to drift through the curtains.

"You were having a nightmare," Mary said. The early morning sun was shining behind her yellow hair and giving her a halo. John thought she looked breath-takingly beautiful.

"Oh, right," he said. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

"Little bit. Question is, are you okay?"

"Yeah." He pressed his palms against his eyelids and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Do you get them a lot? The nightmares?"

"More often than I'd like," John admitted.

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a while, neither quite sure how to proceed.

"Well," said John, sitting up and removing the blankets from his legs. "I should probably…"

"Yeah," Mary frowned. "You probably should."

They both got out of bed and dressed in silence, unsure whether their backs were to each other out of respect or discomfort.

John finished dressing and hesitated in his spot before deciding that it would probably be easier for both of them if he left without a goodbye.

"John?" The sound of his own name stopped him just as he was reaching for the doorknob.

He turned to find Mary looking at him uncertainly. "Yes?" he said.

"You said something…while you were sleeping, I mean."

John felt his face redden at the thought of what that might be. "Oh? What was that?"

"Sherlock," Mary said. "That was all. Just 'Sherlock.'"

"Oh."

"Did you mean Sherlock Holmes? The detective in the paper who faked his own death?"

"Yes."

"And that makes you his friend? The one who helps him with cases and writes about him in a blog?"

"Yes."

Mary smiled, just a little. "I thought your name sounded familiar." She walked toward him slowly, carefully, as though John was a frightened animal that might run away if she moved too suddenly.

"There never was a Shirley, was there?" Her voice was kind and understanding, completely different from dream-Mary's when she had asked the same question. The real Mary would never get that angry. Mary, who was sweet and funny and patient and beautiful. Who he could see himself spending time with, maybe even settling down with one day. Who would be a faithful and loving wife and who would never shoot the walls of their home when she was bored or leave body parts in the refrigerator or neglect to notice when John wasn't there. Who had all the qualities he could ever ask for in a woman.

Mary, who quite simply wasn't Sherlock.

"No," John sighed. "There never was."

"But you do love him?"

There was a long beat. Then finally: "Yes."

Mary nodded. "So?" she said.

"So?"

"So, are you going to go to him? Or am I going to have to find the address and drag you there myself?" And there was the brilliant smile again.

John started to protest, but then felt himself breaking into an enormous grin instead. "You really are fantastic," he beamed. "But I guess you already knew that."

"Yes," she laughed as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. She watched him spin around and open the door, throwing a 'thank you' over his shoulder as he ran to what Mary suspected would be a turning point in his life.

"Yes," Mary said, her smile faltering slightly as the door closed behind him. "I know."

* * *

Probably just one more chapter after this. See you all soon!

Abs


	4. A Dream Realised

John paused outside the door to the flat at 221B Baker Street. When he'd left Mary's, he had felt confident in his decision to come home right away and tell Sherlock how he felt. Now, faced with the prospect of having to confess his feelings to the brilliant and frankly intimidating man on the other side of the door, John Watson was at a total loss.

What on earth had he been thinking, deciding he could tell Sherlock something like that? Sherlock didn't do feelings, couldn't reciprocate them even if he wanted to (which he definitely didn't). He'd probably deduce that John was in love with him eventually anyway, and with luck he'd delete the information and never bring the matter up.

Still, John thought with a heavy sigh, John's love for Sherlock was nothing new. He may have just discovered it that morning, but once he did he realised that it was something that had been there from the beginning, from the first time a mysterious man in a long, black coat came to see him and deduced his life from a single glance, and John had slipped into the man's life without question. It was like going through life having never seen his own reflection, and then one day he found a mirror and of _course _he looked like that. Ignoring his discovery wasn't going to change his feelings any more than ignoring mirrors would change his appearance, and John wasn't sure how much longer he could fake ignorance before he exploded.

Yes, it would probably be best to just get it out of the way now. Walk into the room, tell Sherlock about the dreams, his talk with Mary, everything. And then be done with it. Sherlock might get angry or scoff at him or wave the information off as irrelevant, but it had to be done. Worrying about it would get John nowhere.

Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, he opened the door and prepared for the worst.

What happened next, John had definitely not anticipated.

"Sherlock, there's something I need to—" was all he managed to say before being violently shoved against the door. He was just about to go into soldier-mode, using brute force to shove his attacker off of him, when he felt a pair of lips pressed against his own and all thoughts of resistance vanished from his mind.

The foreign lips were a little clumsy but soft and passionate, and John felt himself starting to close his eyes and reciprocate. He stopped himself, however, forcing his eyes open to glimpse the person who had kiss-attacked him. Even without breaking the kiss he was able to see the cream-colored skin, the graceful neck, the dark curls.

"Sherlock?" he said, pulling back in surprise and banging his head against the door.

"Whom else would it be?" Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow and clearly trying to appear calm. Then, taking in the sight of John rubbing the back of his head where it had collided with the door: "Are you alright?"

"Peachy," John said, more irritably than he had intended. He reached a hand tentatively to the back of his head; there was no sign of a bump forming, but it was sore. "Sherlock, what the hell was that?"

"A kiss. I was under the impression that it was customary behavior amongst people with a mutual affection for each other, especially when one is trying to communicate such feelings to the other." His words sounded as posh and condescending as ever, but John could see the apprehension in his face. "Was I mistaken?"

"No. No, you weren't mistaken, but…wait. Did you just say mutual affection?"

If it was possible for Sherlock Holmes to blush, John could have sworn he saw it then. "When I say 'affection,' I of course mean it in the romantic sense."

"Romantic?" John tilted his head to one side, trying to process the scene unfolding before him.

"Well I deduced…" Sherlock started. He paused, looking more uncertain than John had ever seen him before. "That is, I mean to say…you have been acting strangely over the last week…I'd taken note of excessive nervousness and pupil dilation…and then I could hear you standing outside the door as if trying to debate something, and once I'd eliminated the possibilities of your divulging the details of a terminal illness or a serious relationship with the woman you had dinner with last night…that only left…well…"

It was strange, John thought, seeing Sherlock so utterly at a loss for words. His vocabulary was as extensive as ever, but he was stumbling, trying in vain to string together a coherent thought from the scattered ramblings running wildly through his brilliant mind, and clearly becoming more frustrated by the second. John couldn't help but stare at his friend in awe, wondering what could cause someone usually so articulate to be reduced to an incoherent mess. It certainly wasn't like the Sherlock he knew.

And then it hit him.

_It wasn't like the Sherlock he knew._

"Oh," John said softly, his mouth a perfect circle as realisation dawned on him once again. He was surprised it had taken him this long. "This again."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What again?"

"I don't know whether to take it as a sign or an omen," John said, having heard Sherlock's question but knowing that it would be pointless to answer a figment of his imagination. "Every time one of us makes a move it turns out to be a dream. Maybe that means the same thing would happen if I ever worked up the courage in real life, or maybe I just have to get used to the fact that this is the only way I'll ever have you." He shook his head. "Or maybe it doesn't mean anything at all, and I should just stop thinking so much and enjoy it while I can."

Still looking dazed and evidently deciding on the third option, he slowly reached out and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands, pulling him forward gently.

"John, wait." Sherlock pulled his head back slightly and wrapped his hands around John's own, though he didn't pull them away from his face. "I don't think you understand."

"Don't you want this?" asked John calmly, reminding himself that there was no reason to be nervous or embarrassed around dream-Sherlock.

"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding somewhat desperate. "Of course I do. But John…you are mistaken in thinking that this is a dream."

"Yeah?" John released his hands from Sherlock's face and scowled. "And why should I believe you? How do you know _you_ aren't dreaming right now?"

"Well, for one, I only sleep when I plan to do so, and as I was in the middle of evaluating your recent behavior, my falling asleep anytime soon was unlikely. Two, I long ago developed the ability to dream lucidly. If I was dreaming I could make us both fly or make our clothes disappear just by thinking it, yet here we are fully clothed and standing. And three," he leaned closer, a predatory look suddenly entering his eyes and a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, "I can smell your cologne."

At that moment, John wasn't sure whether or not he was dreaming. He wasn't sure whether he was gay, straight, or something in-between; he wasn't even sure that Sherlock's argument made sense. But what he was completely sure of was this: he didn't care. Sherlock Holmes, whether he was flesh and blood or merely an illusion, was looking at him, _wanting _him, and John would be damned if he let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Grabbing Sherlock's face (this time not-so-gently), he closed the distance between their lips.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, surprised at John's assertiveness. He didn't pull away though, instead deepening the kiss until his and John's tongues were dancing around each other in a sensual battle for dominance. Sherlock felt himself being spun around, and suddenly he was the one pressed against the door as John continued to ravage his mouth as if nothing had happened.

"Boys? Is everything okay up there?" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs, apparently having heard the loud _thump _of Sherlock's body colliding with the wooden door.

"We're fine Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called back, looking more impatient with every second that his lips weren't on John's. John seemed to notice his irritation and set about remedying the situation with soft, slow kisses to Sherlock's neck. The detective gasped just as John began to suck lightly on the area where his neck met his shoulder. It was also at this time that Mrs. Hudson yelled that they had best not expect her to clean up after them if they ended up breaking something (she was their landlady, not their housekeeper) but neither Sherlock nor John heard her.

"John," Sherlock panted as John began to undo the buttons of Sherlock's purple dress shirt, "perhaps we should take this elsewhere?" His eyes flicked toward his bedroom.

"Right," John said, removing his mouth from Sherlock's neck and straightening his stance. "My room?" he asked.

"What's wrong with my room?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing except for the fact that in all the years I've known you you've only gone in there about twice. It's a little creepy. Besides, do you even have any…you know…supplies in there?"

"Supplies?" Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows and realisation flashed into Sherlock's eyes. "Oh! Right! Supplies. No, no I don't suppose I do. Good point. Your room it is."

It was a bit of a struggle making it upstairs, lips once again finding each other and fingers pulling at buttons and hems. But they eventually found themselves standing in the middle of John's room, all articles of clothing but their undergarments shed on the trip up.

Then, with a turn and a push, they were on the bed, John straddling Sherlock's lean hips and Sherlock pressed into the mattress beneath him. Sherlock, who had been trying to show some restraint with the obscene noises he'd been tempted to make every time John touched him, let out soft moans as John's lips began to make their way down his body, lingering a little longer at the nipples, the stomach, the inner thighs.

If there had been any doubt in John's mind that he could be so thoroughly turned on by a man, it vanished as Sherlock's moans grew louder. The detective had barely even touched him, yet John felt himself grow fully hard just knowing that he was the one who caused those noises to come out of that perfect mouth. He suddenly found himself wanting very much to make Sherlock make more of those delicious sounds.

Without a second thought, he hooked his thumbs under Sherlock's black cotton pants and tugged them down, watching hungrily as Sherlock's erection sprang free. In his periphery, he noticed Sherlock lean his head forward to look at him questioningly, but before Sherlock could ask him what exactly he wanted to do next, John lowered his head and slipped his mouth around the tip of Sherlock's cock, taking the loud moan coming from the other end of the bed as his cue to go lower. In one fluid motion, his took as much as he could into his mouth, sweeping his tongue around experimentally before slowly pulling back up.

Sherlock was definitely losing his restraint at that point, tangling his hands in John's hair and occasionally bucking his hips upward when John would do something especially clever with his tongue. And all the while, he made those sounds that John so delighted in hearing until finally with one gasp escaped an urgent _"John."_

Quick as lightning, John removed his mouth, knowing that if they wanted to go any further, it would have to be soon. Sherlock looked rather disappointed at the loss of John's mouth, but his expression changed to curious interest when John said, "How do you want to do this?"

"I…" Sherlock started. "I, ahem…wasn't opposed to what you were doing before."

"I could keep doing that, if you want me to. Or…"

"Or?"

"Or we could try something else."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Well," said John, lowering his voice in an attempt to hide his nervousness, "usually, when I dream about this, I…well I'm…"

"On top?"

John felt his face heat up. "Is it that obvious?"

"It wasn't particularly difficult to deduce," Sherlock panted, lifting his head slightly to grin at John. Then he threw his head down on the pillows once again, spreading his legs a little wider as he did so. He closed his eyes, nodded once.

The next thing Sherlock knew, he found himself on his stomach, a smug-looking John smiling up at him.

"But," said Sherlock, finally losing any semblance of composure. "I thought—"

"Thought what?" said John, clearly pleased with himself at having fooled the great Sherlock Holmes. "That I wouldn't want to try something new?"

"It…" Sherlock gasped softly as John slid his feet back until his knees were bent and resting on either side of Sherlock's hips. "It didn't occur to me."

"I've spent so long dreaming about this Sherlock," John said softly. "This time, I want to know, really _know, _that this is happening." He chuckled. "Genius like you, I wouldn't have thought it would be _particularly difficult _to deduce_._"

Sherlock smirked. "Shut up," he said. And then, as if to ensure that John did as he said, he captured the doctor's lips once more.

As they continued to explore each other's mouths, John found Sherlock's hand. Taking it in his own, he guided both of their hands down his own body until they came to rest on his chest. He rubbed small circles into Sherlock's palm with his right hand as he reached for his dresser drawer with his left. Sherlock stopped kissing him to observe as John flipped open the cap on the lube with his thumb and poured a generous amount into Sherlock's open hand, massaging until the detective's fingers were slick. He guided their hands again, this time placing them between his own legs.

"You know what to do?" John asked, giving his hand a squeeze.

Sherlock nodded, and John released his hand.

Despite his own still-painful arousal, Sherlock made sure to go slowly. He began with just one of his long, slender fingers, making sure John was fully adjusted to its presence before moving on to two, then three. John, who before that day hadn't ever thought he might enjoy something like this, found himself aching to have Sherlock inside him, knotting his hands in the bed sheets and thrusting down onto Sherlock's fingers every time they pushed in.

"_Sherlock_," he panted.

Without further instruction, Sherlock removed his fingers and found the condoms in John's bedside drawer. He ripped open one of the foil packages with his teeth and rolled the condom over his erection. Coating the condom with lube, he willed his body not to react to the touch, as he had been close for quite some time. He glanced up at John, waiting for the other man's nod of approval before gripping John's bent knees, lining himself up, and pushing in.

If John had thought Sherlock's fingers felt good, it was nothing compared to the feeling of having the man himself inside of him. Sherlock remained still, letting John adjust to the fullness. And _oh_, how John felt full. A little stretched and a little strange, sure, but gloriously, marvelously full, and more importantly, full of _Sherlock._ He wondered vaguely why he had never thought to try this in his dreams.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked after a few moments.

"Just a sec," John said, snaking his hand up to find Sherlock's again. He intertwined their fingers before giving a small nod, and then he felt Sherlock begin to move.

Sherlock was still fighting diligently to maintain control over his body. He wanted so badly to release, but he also wanted to keep going, to be able to savor the feeling of being with John, inside of John, for as long as possible. So he commanded his transport to last, just for a little longer. He started with slow, controlled pumps, pulling out just a little and then pushing back in at a steady pace. But then he changed the angle, and John let out a moan so deliciously erotic that Sherlock couldn't help but want to hear it again and again and again.

And so he started going faster, harder, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in again, aiming for John's prostate with every thrust. Both his and John's knuckles had turned white from the vice-grip they kept on each other's hands, but even Sherlock didn't notice. By then he was lost in the ecstasy.

And then, finally, Sherlock Holmes lost his control. With a few more violent, erratic thrusts, he started to spill, a desperate _"John" _falling from his lips.

Still riding the aftershocks, Sherlock placed the hand that wasn't holding John's around the doctor's throbbing cock, pumping hard and fast until John came, gasping and moaning.

Sherlock was the first to settle down, collapsing onto John's torso with an exhausted sigh.

"Oi!" said John, the breath having been knocked from his chest with the sudden weight of the tired detective. Sherlock looked at him guiltily and John felt his heart melt. Placing a hand under Sherlock's chin, he brought the other man down to meet his lips.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock mumbled against John's mouth.

"Well there's something I never thought I'd hear from you," John teased, but then he saw the worried look on his best friend's face and his smile faded. "Why are you sorry?"

"I was too rough," Sherlock said, eyes downcast. "I didn't mean to, I just…lost control. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, look at me," John said sternly, and Sherlock did. "You didn't hurt me." He kissed Sherlock again, gently. "That's was fantastic, love."

John was somewhat surprised at his own use of a pet name so soon, but Sherlock seemed unfazed. He simply grinned back before lifting himself up and pulling out of John. John let his legs lie flat against the bed, and Sherlock rolled over them to lie beside him.

"I don't know about you," John said, glancing over at the window, the mid-morning sun shining brightly through the closed curtains, "but I'm beat. I could do with a nice, long nap."

Sherlock nodded, studying John's hand and playing with his fingers. "Would you like me to stay with you?"

John was silent for a moment. "What happens if I wake up and it was all another dream?"

"It won't be."

"But how can you be so sure?" John asked, eyelids drooping as exhaustion began to take over.

"Because I am very, very smart," Sherlock said, leaning over to give John a peck on the forehead. "Now rest."

...

The last rays of sun were just beginning to vanish from the sky when John awoke. Feeling a slight weight on his chest, he looked down to find a mass of dark curls lying there. Sherlock stirred slightly when he reached out to run his fingers through the soft hair, and John worried that he had woken him, but then the other man simply sighed and nuzzled deeper into his chest, his breathing slow and even.

John smiled and went back to sleep.

* * *

A/N: I'm so sorry I took so long to update! I have a confession to make: this was my first time writing smut. Well, my first without immediately deciding that it was shit and deleting it from both my computer and my mind. So it took me a bit longer to write (mostly because I spent two weeks stuck at the same spot; oops). I'm sorry if it was terrible. If it was, let me know what I can do to improve? Or don't, that's cool too.

Anywho, this story is done, and I hope you at least enjoyed parts of it. Perhaps you haven't seen the last of me; I may write more stories soon. Or maybe I won't. Kind of depends on when the muse strikes, you know? Regardless, thank you for sticking with this one till the end. I really, really appreciate it. :)

Much love,

Abs


End file.
